


don't aim to blow your cover

by Cinaed



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Time, M/M, Master/Servant, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 13, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: “And I’m a cyborg. You could practice bowing down to me,” Simmons said. The suggestion made sense until the second it left his mouth, and then he cringed and waited for Grif to laugh.Grif didn’t laugh. Instead his face went blank. Simmons couldn’t read his expression at all. After a second he said, “Maybe I should.”Simmons blinked. “Um. What?”





	don't aim to blow your cover

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to get done for Kink Day for rvbsmutweek and instead I finished it for First Time, so we'll go with that. Please enjoy Grif and Simmons being idiots and having a very kinky accidental first time.
> 
> Thanks goes out to mutual chats who listened to me flail around in the writing of this, and helped with Donut's candle line. 
> 
> The title comes from 'Alibi' by Dessa.

 

 

 

 

 

> **Grif:** Terminator; The Matrix; Battlestar Galactica; everything points to robot domination of the human race!  
>  **Simmons:** Well technically some Cylons relied more on synthetic biology and not conventional robotics, but that was only in the series reboot. And you know those are pretty rare.  
>  **Grif:** Fine, then Wall-E. It doesn't matter. I just think it's strange that we're not already bowing down to our robot overlords.  
>  **Simmons:** I'm a cyborg, you wanna bow down to me?  
>  **Grif:** Pass.
> 
> Red vs Blue 11x05 “A Real Fixer Upper”

 

Like conflict and idiocy, black markets could be found anywhere humanity flourished. Chorus was no exception. During the civil war as supplies had dwindled, both sides had had their own underground bartering system. Simmons’ lone experience with black market smuggling had almost gotten him executed by firing squad, so he steered clear. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have expected the other Reds and Blues to do the same. Donut had had mysterious contacts all the way back in Blood Gulch with his copious amounts of wine and cheese. And Grif had turned the firing squad incident into a joke-- Simmons had walked in on him laughing about it with his Gold Squad just a few weeks ago.

When Donut announced that Wine and Cheese Hour was officially off hiatus, Simmons squinted at him, and then at Grif, who was eating an MRE through his visor. “No offense, Donut, but unless you found an abandoned vineyard somewhere, old grape juice doesn’t count.”

“Excuse me,” Donut said, offended. “I would _never_ compromise the integrity of Wine and Cheese Hour with grape juice.” He paused. “Unless one of my guests is a prohibitionist. I want everyone to be comfortable.”

Grif stopped eating long enough to mumble, “Wow, that almost ruined my appetite,” before he took another huge bite.

Simmons sighed. “Prohibitionist, not exhibitionist, Grif. He means someone who doesn’t drink.”

“Ugh,” Grif said. It was his turn to sound offended, probably by the concept of someone being willingly sober. “Whatever. I traded with Palomo for movies that aren’t Reservoir Dogs, so we’re doing a Movie Night too.”

Simmons started to speak, and then frowned. Grif wouldn’t trade food for anything other than better food, and Simmons couldn’t think of what else Grif had to offer. “What did you give him?”

“Porn.”

“What?!” Simmons cringed at the sound of his own loud yelp. He cringed harder when he saw other people in the mess hall turning to stare. His face went hot. He whispered, “You traded Palomo your _dirty magazines_?”

Grif shrugged. “Porn is pretty much gold here. One magazine got me twenty movies and first dibs on ice cream when the next aid shipment arrives.”

“I wish I’d known,” Donut said with a sigh. “I’ve missed out on so many creamy treats!”

Simmons and Grif exchanged a long look.

“Yikes. Maybe I should sit somewhere else,” Tucker said, sitting down next to Grif.

Simmons considered warning him not to sit within arm’s reach of Grif when eating, especially when he’d somehow scavenged a dessert of sugared berries. Then Tucker added, “I have the moonshine for tonight. And I bet Caboose can score some cookies.”

Simmons’ mouth opened of its own volition. “You invited Tucker to Movie Night?” _Before me_? he almost added. He barely bit back the words.  

The question still earned him a weird look from Grif, which he could sense even through Grif’s helmet. “Uh, yeah. I invited everybody. Donut’s bringing the wine and cheese. Tucker’s got moonshine. Caboose apparently has cookies. Who the fuck knows with Sarge. Probably a grenade painted like a dessert for me. I think Carolina and Wash are bringing stuff too.”

“Everybody,” Simmons repeated. Was he really the last person invited? To _Grif's_ Movie Night? He hated the way his stomach dropped. He felt queasy, the way he had whenever people had picked teams in high school gym and he was the last one standing there. Masking his hurt with snappishness, he said, “I guess I’ll bring napkins, since I’m not a slob.”

“Did you just call us all slobs?” Tucker said, laughing incredulously. He turned and shouted across the mess, “Hey, Carolina! Simmons just called you--”

Simmons panicked.

His spoon bounced harmlessly against Tucker’s helmet. Tucker turned. “What the fuck?”

Grif snickered around a mouthful of stolen berries. “Talk shit, get hit, Tucker.”

Tucker’s helmet tilted. He looked down at his plate. “Grif, did you really-- Ugh, screw this. I’m hanging out with Wash and Carolina.” He grabbed his plate and stood, still grumbling under his breath.  

Ignoring him, Grif leaned across the table. “Come on, dude. You know Donut’s got the napkins handled. We just need to move stuff around in your room.”

Understanding dawned, and with it, the familiar muddle of amusement and frustration he always felt around Grif. Simmons rolled his eyes. “Gee, Grif, thanks so much for the heads up,” he said sarcastically. “Also, just for future reference, generally you _ask_ someone before you commandeer their room for a movie night.”

“Uh, I didn’t ask?” When Simmons let the silence stretch, Grif shrugged. “My bad. But where else would we have Movie Night? I can barely handle Donut’s dumb candles for Wine and Cheese Hour. Sarge’s room is a death trap. I’m not dealing with Freckles. Tucker apparently has to get up early for some dumb experiment with one of those Towers. Wash and Carolina’s are no-go zones. And you’d have an aneurysm if we used mine.”

“Grif, you’re so rude! My candles are necessary for the ambiance!”

“Fine. We’ll use my room,” said Simmons. He kept his tone irritated, and ignored the pathetic feeling of happiness at the mere thought of Grif-- of someone needing him.

“Simmons, you like my candles, don’t you?” Before Simmons could scramble for an answer, Donut’s voice brightened. “Or do you have a preference for new scents? I’d love to test out your candle!”

Simmons and Grif exchanged another suffering look. Then Simmons saw an opportunity to get revenge for Grif forgetting to officially invite him to Movie Night. He grinned behind his helmet and said sweetly, “I don’t, but maybe Grif would like candles that smell more like food.”

“Uh, no,” Grif said. “That’s a fucking terrible idea. Who likes things smelling like food that you can’t eat? The devil, that’s who.”

Donut glanced between Grif and Simmons. “But Grif, I’m _sure_ I could find an Oreo-scented candle!” His voice sounded earnest, which meant either he was being sincere or he was briefly joining forces with Simmons to mess with Grif. Or both. It was hard to tell with Donut sometimes.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Grif said flatly, and then ate the last of Tucker’s stolen fruit as Donut huffed.

 

* * *

 

When Grif had said Movie Night, he’d actually meant a movie marathon. _The Matrix_ was first, and then _Robocop VIII_. By the final act of _The Terminator_ , only he and Simmons were left, an almost empty bottle of whisky between them on the couch.

As Grif pulled out _Blade Runner_ , Simmons groaned and threw a pillow at him. Despite the moonshine and whisky sloshing around his stomach and making the couch sway under him, he still managed to hit Grif in the face. “Jesus. _Blade Runner_? Really? What the fuck is your obsession with robot uprisings? If Lopez’s attempt was any indication, we’re pretty safe.” Even as he spoke, he realized that Lopez hadn’t been invited to Movie Night. Grif probably hadn’t wanted to give him any ideas.  

Grif took the pillow to his face with only a faint grimace. He put the movie down, shaking his head. “Yeah, you say that now. Just don’t come crying to me when Lopez takes over Chorus. Anyway, I thought you’d want to take notes on how to survive when robots rule us all.”

Simmons squinted, trying to figure out if Grif was teasing him. “Hey, you were pretty impressed with my note-taking when it came to zombie apocalypse preparation.” Then he frowned. His drunken thoughts turned in slow confused circles; he felt a tinge of déjà vu. Hadn’t they had this conversation, or something like it, a few months ago? “And I’m a cyborg. You could practice bowing down to me,” he said. The suggestion made sense until the second it left his mouth, and then he cringed and waited for Grif to laugh.

Grif didn’t laugh. Instead his face went blank. Simmons couldn’t read his expression at all. After a second he said, “Maybe I should.”

Simmons blinked. “Um. What?”

Grif shrugged. “Lopez might convince Freckles to join forces. When Freckles wasn’t toy-sized, we were royally fucked. So uh maybe we should practice before he figures out how to get destroy-all-humans size again.”

This time when Simmons squinted, he was looking for signs of inebriation. He hadn’t noticed Grif drinking any more than usual, but his face did seem slightly flushed, his eyes weirdly bright. He had to be drunk, Simmons decided. Or this was a joke at Simmons’ expense, though it seemed like one of Grif’s weirder ones and more likely to blow up in both their faces. Maybe the whisky and moonshine had gotten to Grif too.  

Even as Simmons thought that, Grif snorted. His expression shifted to a familiar asshole grin. “Or not. Whatever. You’d be a shitty robot overlord anyway.”

“Hey!” Simmons protested.

Grif shrugged again. “What? You’re the one who suggested it, and you’ve already changed your mind. I guess I got your spine with everything else.” He snorted. “I bet you’ll end up being Lopez’s minion.”

That shouldn’t have gotten under Simmons’ skin, but it did. _Lopez’s minion_? He gritted his teeth. “Oh, like you wouldn’t offend your robot master in five seconds and die!”

“See? We both need practice,” Grif said. He had the nerve to look and sound smug, like he’d won the argument.

Simmons growled. He started to storm off. He was halfway to his feet before he remembered that he was in his own room. He dropped back onto the couch. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to sober up as he snapped, “Well, first of all, none of my servants would look so sloppy. Clean yourself up.” He expected Grif to argue. How many times had Grif rolled his eyes and called Simmons a neat freak?

Instead the smugness faded from Grif’s face. “Okay.”

“ _Okay_?” Simmons squeaked.

“Okay,” Grif said. His hands went to his long hair. He began to work his fingers through the strands. Simmons’ mouth went strangely dry at the sight. Grif’s hands moved with rare assuredness. This close Simmons noticed every detail -- the cigarette stains on Grif’s fingers, the minute flex of his arms that shifted the hair-tie on his left wrist, the stuttering movement of Grif’s fingers every time he encountered a particularly stubborn tangle.

It was only when Simmons’ eyes began to sting that he realized he was staring. He blinked, and broke out of his stupor enough to register that Grif was staring back, his face still unreadable, his eyes still strangely bright. Simmons opened his mouth, though he had no idea what he was going to say. He closed it, wordless, as Grif gathered up his hair and twisted it into a bun, using the hair-tie to keep it in place.

Then Grif moved towards Simmons’ dresser.

Breaking eye contact shocked Simmons all the way out of his frozen surprise. He turned to see what Grif would do next. His stomach dipped as Grif checked his hair in the mirror Lieutenant Jensen had given Simmons as a ‘housewarming’ gift, his hands running carefully over the bun. Then he seemed to hesitate. Before Simmons could recover his voice and ask what Grif was looking for, Grif grabbed the bottle of cologne and sprayed himself a few times. Then he pulled the lint roller out of the top left-hand drawer, this time reaching in without hesitation as though he knew exactly where Simmons kept everything in his room.

Simmons was grateful that Grif wielded the lint roller with a touch less confidence, frowning at the mirror as the roller caught up crumbs and smoothed out wrinkles. It meant that Simmons had a chance to think. He licked his lips and looked at Grif, who had bent to awkwardly run the lint roller down one leg of his sweatpants. His eyes caught on Grif’s exposed nape. Grif hadn’t sprayed cologne there, but it glistened in the light. A sudden thought struck Simmons. He shook his head to dismiss it, but the thought lingered and grew into a suspicion. He stood up, carefully, so that the couch wouldn’t creak and give away his movement. He stepped behind Grif. Now that he wasn’t distracted, he could see the slight tremors running through Grif’s shoulders, the sweat beginning to darken the back of his t-shirt. The strong cinnamon top notes of Simmons’ cologne didn’t completely mask the fainter smell of perspiration.

The room was cold. Everyone had complained about it, especially Grif, who usually sulked in a sweatshirt, but Simmons had always preferred cool room temperatures even before the cyborg surgery had meant he overheated easily. Grif could be sweating from too much alcohol, but Simmons didn’t think so.

Grif straightened and saw Simmons in the mirror. His poker face slipped. His fingers tightened on the lint roller and he said, a little too fast and loud in the quiet of the room, “Well? Do I pass?”

Simmons was hit by a million emotions at once. At the forefront was disbelief, but just quickly that was replaced by frustration and the certainty that he was right. He didn’t know why he was surprised. How many times over the years had Grif blustered or goaded Simmons into doing something without admitting what he actually wanted? Even when they’d been about to die by firing squad, Grif had refused to be serious. Grif wouldn’t know an emotionally honest conversation if it ran him over with the Warthog.

Well, the parameters had changed. Simmons was going to make Grif be honest with him, or they could both die of embarrassment in the attempt. He swallowed, and that too seemed loud in his ears. He started to reach out, hesitated, and then placed two cyborg fingers under Grif’s jaw, forcing his chin up a little. He couldn’t feel Grif’s surprised twitch with that hand, but he saw it. He studied Grif from head to foot, watching Grif’s poker face waver during the slow examination. His own face felt hot, but he forced his embarrassment into a tight knot in his stomach. He rubbed a strand of hair that had slipped free of the hair-tie slowly between his real fingers and then let the hair fall back against Grif’s neck with a disappointed sigh. “I suppose no human operates at one hundred percent efficiency.”

“Uh,” said Grif, his eyes widening slightly. He set the lint roller on the dresser. “R-right.”

Simmons felt a heady satisfaction at Grif’s stutter. It lasted for a few seconds before he realized that he didn’t know where to go from there. The dirty magazines and Donut’s erotic novels that Simmons had accidentally picked up once or twice hadn’t prepared him for this.

He didn’t have time to panic, because Grif’s hand closed over his cyborg wrist and Grif said quickly, “Next up is the inspection, right?”

Simmons blinked. He tried to make his expression reserved, even as he searched Grif’s features for clues. Grif just looked blandly helpful. “The inspection?”

“To make sure you’re, uh, operating at one hundred percent too,” Grif said. His fingers plucked meaningfully at the hem of Simmons’ shirt-sleeve and then stroked over Simmons’ unfeeling palm.

Simmons went weak in the knees. Then he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. If Grif’s mask had cracked slightly, Simmons’ was hanging on by a thread. He closed his eyes and recited Pi to himself until he could think clearly. He wasn’t giving Grif back the upper hand. When he opened his eyes, he pulled his arm away and fixed Grif with a glare.

“Did I say _your_ inspection was concluded?”

Grif blinked. “No, but--”

“Are you questioning me?” Simmons said, and was pleased when Grif shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. How many times had he imagined ordering Grif around like this and being obeyed instead of insulted? Well, he admitted, shifting a little uncomfortably in his slacks, not _exactly_ like this….

Then Grif yanked his t-shirt over his head and Simmons lost his train of thought. The hair-tie came off with the shirt, bouncing off the mirror, and Grif grimaced with genuine irritation. This time as he worked on his hair, his movements were hurried and sloppy.

“I don’t expect one hundred percent perfection from a meatsack, but I expect something better than that,” slipped from Simmons’ lips without forethought.

Grif shot him an incredulous look that lasted a heartbeat. Then his expression went bland and agreeable again. “Yes, sir,” he said, sweet enough to cause instant cavities. He began to rearrange his hair into a better bun, the sweep of his fingers slow and careful. This time he tilted his head up a little, baring his neck. In the mirror, that stupid Blade tattoo shone dark on his skin.

His strange voice and exposed throat was distracting enough that it took Simmons a second to absorb the actual words. His knees went weak again, and it was self-preservation, really, that made him crowd Grif. Their hips brushed, and Grif startled backwards until his back hit the edge of the dresser, his hands still buried in his hair. Simmons traced Grif’s shoulder with his fingertips, following the strange line where their two skin tones met. He kept his eyes on Grif’s face, searching for minute tells that Grif was losing his composure. Grif’s skin was warm beneath his palms, the tattoo smooth and strange when he touched its ridges.

“I should make you get that removed.”

Grif’s breath hitched. His lips parted a little, but only a harsh exhale escaped him. Then he said, his voice low and thick, “Whatever you want.”   

Simmons had only meant to needle Grif, who’d only kept the tattoo because of laziness and a dislike for the pain of laser removal. He hadn’t thought how it would seem in the middle of their game, his casual ownership of Grif’s body. He took a deep breath to steady himself. That was a mistake. He could smell Grif’s sandalwood in his hair, the scent half-lost beneath the cologne. The two scents mingled so that Grif smelled of them both. Simmons had missed the significance of that moment earlier, but now his mind fixated on it. Grif had willingly marked himself. If he walked out right now, anyone he met would smell Simmons’ cologne on him. The thought was more potent than all the whisky and moonshine they’d had earlier. Simmons cupped Grif’s chin with his cyborg hand. The other hand stayed on Grif’s shoulder.

“You haven’t bowed to me yet.”

At the curt reminder, Grif’s eyes darkened. He made a small, aborted movement. He’d meant to bow, Simmons realized, but they stood too close together, Simmons’ grip too restrictive.

As soon as Simmons released him and took a step back, Grif moved. He dropped to his knees, so quickly and clumsily that Simmons instinctively winced at the sound of Grif’s knees hitting the floor. It must’ve hurt, but the pain didn’t show on Grif’s face. He braced his hands on his thighs, and looked up.  

Simmons couldn’t tell if he actually felt Grif’s warm breath against his slacks, or if his desperate imagination was playing tricks. Either way, the desire that swept through him was hot and stupefying. He faltered a little, uncertain of his next order. Everything he wanted to say sounded stupid even in the privacy of his own mind. He swallowed, his mouth dry again. Trying to buy himself a moment, he said, “That wasn’t a bow.”

“No,” Grif agreed. “I want to inspect you, sir.” His voice was still mock earnest, but his body betrayed him, Simmons’ eyes finally dipping below Grif’s face and chest, between Grif’s hands clenched upon his thighs, to the erection straining against his sweatpants.

Simmons floundered, half-drowning in the force of his own need. Panicking, he retreated into his role. “What you want is irrelevant,” he snapped. He slid his hands roughly into Grif’s hair, disheveling the already unraveling bun. “But go ahead.”  

Simmons had known what Grif planned from the moment he’d dropped to his knees, but knowing something and experiencing it were two very different things. He almost came at that first press of Grif’s mouth. He choked back a desperate whine as Grif’s tongue traced his dick through the thin fabric. He tugged at Grif's hair, urging him on, and was rewarded by Grif mouthing him even more eagerly. His climax hit him like a sniper’s bullet, as much of a surprise to him as to Grif; he heard Grif’s startled sound a second after his own. Simmons shuddered, overwhelmed. He clutched at Grif’s shoulders to steady himself. He suddenly felt too much. Sweat trickled down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. A clammy stickiness spread in his boxers and down his thighs. Grif’s hair, unbound again, tickled the back of Simmons’ hands. He shuddered all over. 

He instinctively took a shaky step towards the dresser, fumbling for the tissues there. He could think better if he was clean. He paused when Grif followed him, still on his knees, and put his fingers to the button and zipper of Simmons’ slacks. The tissues were forgotten. Simmons yelped as Grif yanked down his slacks and boxers. “Grif,” he said. A half-formed question died on his lips when Grif looked up at him. The parameters shifted again. 

Grif’s eyes were bright. It would’ve been the same look as the one he’d worn when he’d obeyed Simmons’ first order, except for the desire and anticipation that lit the rest of his face. He looked unfamiliar with all the pretense and masks stripped away.   

Simmons’ chest clenched. His fingers twitched with the crazy impulse to trace and memorize this new expression. His cock, which had softened, started to get hard again. He couldn’t tell who had the upper hand anymore. He didn’t think it mattered.

“Well?” he said hoarsely. He braced himself against the dresser. “Finish your inspection.”

Grif’s hands settled on Simmons’ thighs. His nails scratched lightly over the still-sensitive skin, so that Simmons was already hard when Grif’s hands slipped down to his knees and pushed his legs apart. Grif went down on him slowly, taking Simmons’ dick into his mouth inch by inch. He seemed unhurried, as though Grif was in complete control of himself. Only his unsteady breathing and his fixed stare betrayed him. His hands clutched Simmons' legs. 

This time Simmons recognized the tightening knot in his stomach. He patted Grif’s head clumsily to warn him. When Grif didn’t pull back, Simmons tried to drag enough breath into his lungs to speak. “Grif.”

Grif ignored the warning. Another curl of his tongue, and Simmons was gone again. When the roaring in his ears ebbed, he heard harsh coughing. He opened his eyes and caught Grif wiping come from his face. Simmons wavered between disgust and satisfaction at the mess. He ended up feeling a weird mixture of both, that muddled way Grif always made him feel where he didn't know up from down or left from right, and handed him a tissue.

“There’s some in your hair,” he said and found, at the startled quirk of Grif’s eyebrows, that even after coming twice in a matter of minutes he could still blush.

He looked down and realized that Grif was still hard. He froze. His heart beat unsteadily in his ears again. Anxiety crowded out a flickering interest. If Grif had choked on a blowjob, Simmons definitely would. A few scenarios played out in his all, each one more mortifying than the last. Trying not to second-guess himself, he took a deep breath and said, “Clean yourself up, then strip and get on the bed.”

“Uh,” Grif said, his voice strained. “Right.”    

Simmons stripped the rest of his clothes off too. It steadied him to do something normal like put his clothes into his laundry basket and his shoes in the closet. When he turned back to Grif, he almost had himself under control.

Grif sat at the edge of the bed. His poker face was nowhere to be seen. He was aiming for that amiable, obedient look, but uncertainty creased his forehead, and he kept opening his mouth, as though to speak, before closing his mouth.

“I said _on_ the bed,” Simmons said, putting an impatient snap into the words. When Grif didn’t immediately obey, he put both hands on Grif’s chest and shoved.

It was Grif’s turn to yelp in surprise as his back hit the covers. He laid there for a second, blinking, and then scrambled up the bed until not even his feet dangled off the edge. He propped himself up on one elbow and watched Simmons. Most of the uncertainty was gone, replaced by anticipation. 

Simmons knelt above Grif, straddling his hips. He smoothed a hand down Grif’s chest and over his stomach, feeling the sweat-slippery skin and the softness from the fat, all the hard muscle earned through unwilling training and fighting almost hidden beneath his searching fingers. He lingered there for a second, savoring the way Grif shook and breathed unsteadily under his palm.

Grif gasped when Simmons finally wrapped his fingers tentatively around the base of Grif’s cock. It was only now with Grif pliant beneath him that Simmons finally noticed Grif’s silence. If he had imagined how Grif sounded in bed, which he hadn’t, except maybe in a few dreams, he would’ve thought Grif would run his mouth as much as he did in every other situation.Instead Grif kept biting his lip, his throat working. Occasionally a stifled sound escaped him, but that was all.  

Simmons took his hand away.  “Did I tell you to be quiet?”

It took a moment for Grif’s eyes to focus. He blinked. “Uh. No?”          

“Exactly,” Simmons said, and wrapped his hand around Grif’s dick again. He rubbed his thumb down the length a little roughly, the way he liked it when he was jerking off and close to the edge.

Grif made another stifled sound. He must have remembered Simmons’ words then, because he said, his voice hoarse and shaky, “Fuck, Simmons. You’re-- Do that again. Please.”

A cyborg master probably would’ve rebuked him for giving orders and forgetting to pay him proper respect. Simmons was helpless at the please. He did it a third time just to wrest another loud “Fuck!” from Grif.  

Grif groaned encouragement in between gasps for breath. Half of the words were an incoherent mumble, most of the rest a rambling string of compliments and praises that Simmons didn't believe. Every once in a while Grif's breath caught and he loudly moaned Simmons’ name. His hips made small, helpless movements that grew more urgent with every touch, his words less and less intelligible.

Simmons bent his head close to Grif’s. He could still smell the cologne. In a few hours the scent would be gone from Grif’s skin like he’d never marked himself, like this had never happened. Simmons’ chest tightened with an out-of-place panic. He pressed his nose against Grif’s throat, trying to figure out where the scent was strongest, ignoring the scratch of Grif’s five o’clock shadow.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Grif said thickly, and came all over Simmons’ hand and thighs.  

Simmons was startled out of his partial crouch. Straightening, he wiped his hand on the bed beside them and wondered at the taste of chemicals and sweat in his mouth. When he looked down, he realized that he’d left a string of marks on Grif’s skin that were sure to bruise.

Grif blinked up at him. His hand went to his throat, fingering one of the marks.  

Simmons flushed. “I’ll get a washcloth,” he said, and fled.

In the bathroom he avoided his reflection as he scrubbed hastily at the mingled come until he was clean enough to put on a new pair of boxers. The only evidence left of what they’d done was on Grif’s skin. He closed his eyes, trying to shake the anxiety that wanted to twist his stomach into knots. “It’s fine,” he mumbled to himself. The bathroom was too small to pace in, but he still turned in a few circles, breathing quickly. “We’re fine.” Grif hadn’t wanted to admit they were friends even they were about to die by firing squad. Tonight was somehow weirder, but Grif was still Grif. He’d laugh it off or make a joke about how they’d both really needed to get laid or…. The third possibility was too impossible to contemplate.  

When he went back into the bedroom, Grif had a pillow over his face.

Simmons hesitated. He hadn't expected that. He might have assumed that Grif was asleep, except that he’d roused Grif out of enough naps and dragged him out of bed enough times to know that Grif didn’t sleep with anything covering his face. He waited for a second, but Grif didn’t move. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Get off the bed and let me change the sheets.”

“Yes, sir,” Grif said through the pillow. Something in Simmons relaxed at the familiar sarcasm coloring the address. Things weren't as weird as he thought, if Grif could still be sarcastic. When Grif pulled the pillow away from his head, he looked almost normal, though he was back to his reticence as Simmons tossed him the washcloth. He did, however, flop back on the bed as soon as Simmons had finished changing the bed. “Don’t make me do a walk of shame,” he mumbled against the sheets before Simmons could say anything.

Simmons hesitated, looking at Grif’s tense back. He supposed that sharing a bed after sex wasn’t any weirder than the actual sex, even if for some reason it felt that way. He swallowed against his nerves, then shoved at Grif’s shoulder. “Get under the sheets then, dumbass.”

Grif obeyed with an exaggerated groan.

Simmons turned off the lights and slipped under the sheets. They lay side by side. The bed wasn’t built for two people and Grif had a tendency to sprawl, so Simmons ended up at the edge of the bed. His cyborg eye’s night vision couldn’t pick out the details of darkening bruises on Grif’s skin but he knew they were there. He lay in the dark, trying to ignore the voice in his head that said he’d somehow tricked Grif into a weird pity-fuck, and that in the morning Grif was going to act like they'd both just had too much to drink and refuse to talk about it.  

He shifted restlessly. His elbow knocked against Grif’s side. He froze and remembered Grif’s fingers plucking at his shirt-sleeve, wanting to inspect him, remembered his own frustrated thought that he'd make Grif admit what he wanted even if they both died of embarrassment. Licking his lips, he whispered, “You didn’t bow.”

There was silence. It stretched out forever. Simmons had just convinced himself that Grif was faking deafness when Grif said slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, we, uh, didn’t get to that, did we?”  

“No.”

Silence again. Then the bed creaked. Grif must've moved closer. Now his hair tickled Simmons' cheek, and Simmons could feel his breath as Grif said, “Guess we should practice more.”

Giddy with relief, Simmons would've slumped if he'd been sitting upright. He smiled instead into the dark. “Practice makes perfect,” he agreed when he could trust his voice, adding in a fake robot voice, “Perhaps a human can reach one hundred percent efficiency after all.”  

“God, you’re such a fucking nerd,” Grif said fondly. "And I should've known you'd be a bossy asshole as soon as I pretended to listen to you."

Simmons didn't call him out on his obvious bullshit, that he'd clearly been into being ordered around and hadn't been pretending at all. "How's this for bossy? Go the fuck to sleep," he said instead, pitching his voice low and firm. The thrill at Grif's ready obedience, even for something as natural as sleeping, made Simmons shiver with a faint echo of arousal. He put that thought away for later, and closed that final inch. He rested his forehead against Grif's arm, feeling the tension he'd missed in the dark gradually ease. "Go to sleep," he said again, a second before Grif began to snore.

He fell asleep breathing in the slowly fading scent of his cologne. 


End file.
